


Her Kind Regards

by middlemarchingfic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, F/F, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarchingfic/pseuds/middlemarchingfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Somewhere across the bay, a bell tolled the late hour. Meredith set down her quill and turned her eyes, unblinking, into the harsh glare of the sunset over the water."</p><p>Set after the events of Act 2, but before the events of Act 3; Meredith becomes fixated on the apostate Champion of Kirkwall and convinces herself that she alone can provide the protection that she needs. Hawke disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will deal with the subject of emotional manipulation and abuse, but will not contain any scenes of sexual assault or violence. For those who might be put off without this disclaimer: Meredith/Hawke is not the endgame pairing--Aveline/Hawke is.
> 
> I am glad to admit that [this cover of "Hellfire"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NhVkDTP8bo) was a major source of inspiration for this fic.

_Esteemed Champion of Kirkwall,_

_I write to you today, not as a Knight-Commander of the Templar Order, but as your fellow citizen of Kirkwall, in hopes of expressing to you my deepest and most sincere condolences regarding the death of your mother, Lady Leandra Amell. It was with great heaviness of heart that Her Grace lifted up your mother’s name during vespers this evening. Many of the faithful elected to leave remembrances for her at the Chantry memorial wall after the conclusion of service. I readily admit I knew of your mother only by her sterling reputation, but Champion, I feel obliged to tell you I believe her reputation to be well deserved._

_Perhaps this letter shall come as some surprise to you, as our politics have often been at odds with each other. I caution you not to consider this letter an offered olive branch, as there is much between us that remains unsettled and much that still must be addressed. Yet I request that you take me at my word when I assure you that I grieve with you, as only one who has also lost a loved one to blood magic can._

_From the bottom of my heart, Champion--I am most sorry for your loss._

_With kind regards,_

_Meredith Stannard  
Knight-Commander of Kirkwall_

 

Somewhere across the bay, a bell tolled the late hour. Meredith set down her quill and turned her eyes, unblinking, into the harsh glare of the sunset over the water.

The letter in front of her still required time for the ink to dry before she could neatly fold it, place it in an envelope, seal it, and send it out with a courier. She still had time to change her mind, to consign the letter to the hearthfire where it belonged. The fire was lit; she could toss it in at any time. Carefully so as to avoid smudging the ink, she lifted the letter from her desk to skim it one more time in search of any glaring errors, either of syntax or of logic. At a glance, she could discern none, save for perhaps the undue sentimentality that had crept into the writing despite her best efforts. It seemed unfair to lay the blame squarely at Grand Cleric Elthina’s feet, but Her Grace did have a knack for coaxing the soft thoughts and feelings from Meredith despite her protestations.

Elsa announced herself by rapping on the closed door three times. Still scrutinizing her writing, Meredith said, “Enter.”

The door opened to admit the Tranquil mage, whose unyielding neutrality proved to be precisely what Meredith required that evening. Elsa wordlessly offered her several reports authored by the Knight-Captain, and in exchange, Meredith proffered her the letter. “Read this,” she instructed, “and be quick about it.”

Elsa took the letter unquestioningly. Her eyes flicked across the writing. On a normal day, Meredith appreciated her silence. This evening, it rankled her nerves. “I would like for you to give me your honest impression of this letter.”

Mechanically, the mage replied, “It is a letter of condolences from yourself to Lady Brona Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.” Elsa looked up from the writing to meet Meredith’s eyes. Hers were cool and emotionless, but hardly vacant. “It is kindly phrased. Should you require it, Knight-Commander, I will see to it that this is sent with the last of the post this evening.”

“That anything I have penned should be considered ‘kindly phrased’ would shock many, I suspect,” Meredith mused aloud, almost smiling, and leaned back in her seat. Elsa remained familiarly expressionless, and expectant, and Meredith realized she was awaiting instructions. She dismissed her with a wave. “Yes, Elsa. That will be all.”

The Tranquil mage dipped her head once. “Very well, Knight-Commander.” When she left the office, she pulled the heavy oak door closed behind her, leaving Meredith alone with the remainder of her tasks for the evening, and too much to mull over. She still had too much to mull over when she laid down in her bunk late that night, closed her eyes, and dreaded what demonic possession would do to Brona Hawke’s gentle hazel eyes. These moments of dreadful anxiety that plagued her in the moments before she finally succumbed to sleep had morphed from one-off occurrences into an established pattern.

For two days, life at the Gallows continued on as it always had, with work to be done and charges to oversee. The stress and tedium of her responsibilities, unforgiving as the weight of her armor, pushed thoughts of the letter, and of the Champion, to the margins. On the third morning, the air still crisp and cold and carrying with it the promise of a harsher winter to come, a courier approached her in the Gallows courtyard.

Meredith paid him little attention at first. The Gallows possessed a dedicated ministerial office that managed incoming and outgoing post, and doubtless, this courier would find his way there without her interference. She turned her attention away from him and towards the green recruits at their training exercises. But moments later the courier was at her elbow, and when Meredith turned a bewildered eye on him, he seemed to shrink like a mouse caught in an owl’s shadow.

“Yes?” she said shortly.

The courier’s mouth worked like a fish’s for a moment, but words did eventually come out. “Knight-Commander, I have a letter for you.” His hands shook a little as he held out a sealed envelope. “It’s from the Champion of Kirkwall. She requested I hand it to you myself.”

“I see.” The rush of feeling that descended upon her then defied description, and she quieted it with a slow, disciplined exhalation. Still, it roiled and shivered under the veneer of calm she wore on her face. She took the proffered envelope and dismissed the courier with an idle hand gesture, and turned on her heel to exit the training grounds at a brisk walk.

The Knight-Captain came up to her in confusion before she reached the door. “Knight-Commander,” he began, “if I may have your feedback on the recruits’ training regimen before you depart--”

“You may not,” she interrupted him curtly, already grasping the door handle. “Continue as you were, Cullen.” He balked at her dismissal, but didn’t argue.

She strode down the Gallows’ brutalist stone corridors like a gale off the sea, and wordless, mage and templar alike hurried out of her path lest they be stepped on. Meredith wasn’t oblivious to them, but they registered in her thoughts only as bits of peripheral noise. In her hands, the envelope burned at her fingertips with the words it could have contained. When she reached her office, she offered up one last prayer of thanks to the Maker that Orsino was not waiting for her with another litany of grievances. She slipped into her office, closed the door, and latched it firmly behind her.

That last action--locking her office door--seemed in retrospect to be so unnecessary, and yet she’d done it without a second thought, without even questioning the necessity of the action. She frowned and stepped back from the door for a moment, a troubling disquietude tugging at the back of her thoughts. But now that she was alone, she couldn’t focus on anything except the letter. Breaking the seal, she pulled out the neatly folded piece of parchment, unfolded it, and began to read:

_Knight-Commander,_

_Please let me begin by stating my appreciation for your transparency regarding where we stand with each other, as I think a different sort of person might have chosen to leverage these unhappy circumstances to take advantage of me in my grief. I can tell that this was not the intent of your letter, and I thank you for the kind words that you have offered in regards to the death of my mother. It is clear to me that your condolences come from the heart, and so in the same spirit, I wish to offer you my sincerest gratitude. I would also like to extend an invitation to you._

_After my mother’s passing, my Uncle and I had little time to make arrangements for more than a simple funeral pyre. The Qunari uprising put many of our other plans on hold, but now that the city has, more or less, returned to normal, I have arranged to have my mother’s ashes scattered into the sea. I invite you to attend a small, semi-formal gathering of my mother’s friends and loved ones at the Wounded Coast, a week from this date at sunrise. Please don’t concern yourself with the security of the gathering, as Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen will be in attendance with a full retinue of guards, both as part of a small ceremony, and to provide us with protection._

_If you choose to attend I would ask, as a personal favor, that out of respect for the gravity of the occasion we all leave our politics behind in Kirkwall. Please respect the other apostates in my circle who will be present to pay their final respects to my mother, and I will make sure that they afford you the same courtesy._

_I do hope you will attend, and look forward to seeing you._

_Yours,_

_Brona Hawke_

 

Meredith realized belatedly that she’d read the entire letter while standing in the middle of her office, and so made herself cross the room to her desk. She sat down, leaned forward in her seat, and read the letter again, and then a third time, and still was no closer to understanding the combined rush of outrage and elation, and guilt, that she felt at reading the Champion’s words. The outrage she could understand; how presumptuous of the Champion to suppose that she was in any position to negotiate how a Knight-Commander of the Templar Order chose to deal with maleficarum? Perhaps she could even parse the elation, for she knew that on some level she had hoped to further their correspondence. But the guilt? There was nothing to regret, or to be ashamed of, in her actions. Was there?

Abruptly, she folded up the letter, tucked it with uncharacteristic gingerness back into its envelope, and set it down on her desk. She leaned back in her seat and drummed her fingers on her armrest, more full of nervous energy now than she had been as a green recruit swallowing down her first lyrium infusion. Then, she picked up her quill and another sheet of parchment, and penned a response:

 

_Esteemed Champion of Kirkwall,_

_I thank you for the invitation to attend Lady Leandra Amell’s memorial ceremony._

Her quill hovered over the parchment for a moment.

_I write to you today to inform you that I understand and accept your terms, and will be in attendance. Please convey my kind regards to your uncle._

_Yours,_

_Meredith Stannard_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meredith attends a funeral.

Brona Hawke had selected a small, peaceful inlet along the Wounded Coast as the site of the memorial ceremony, where the briny waves that lapped against the shoreline met white sand rather than brown, craggy rocks and driftwood. Brown-skinned and willowy-limbed, she stood ankle deep in the cold water, the flowing fabric of her ivory gown falling to just above the curve of her calves; in her arms she cradled a white marble urn, the tips of her long fingers curled against the grey veins streaking the across the smooth stone surface. She had her head bowed low in prayer as Brother Sebastian Vael recited the funeral homily, her eyes closed and her eyebrows drawn into a meditative frown.

Meredith could not look away from her.

Both amidst and apart from the other prayerful mourners just out of the reach of the inlet’s waters, the Knight-Commander stood rigid and composed on the sandy bank with her hands clasped together behind her back, and considered the Champion in silence. What a portrait the right artist might have composed of this moment, she mused. A pious apostate at prayer by the sea, the beatitude of her untouchable grief gilded by the light of a golden sunrise. Someone had taken the time to tenderly braid her impossibly long and straight brown hair into a single Orlesian plait that followed the curve of her back nearly to her waist. The wind had tugged loose a few wispy strands that now floated airily near her temples and fine, high cheekbones.

The homily ended, and the sudden silence filled only by the wash of the waves against the sand quickened Meredith’s senses and brought her out of her thoughts. Brother Sebastian closed the small prayer book that he had been reciting from, tucked it into one of the pockets of his cassock, and stepped into the water to join Hawke. Meredith marked the second she opened her hazel eyes and turned to face him. Sebastian offered up a small blessing, laying his hands on the marble urn as he did so, then retreated from Hawke to rejoin the rest of the mourners on the shoreline.

The water must have been beyond frigid, but Hawke waded in deeper until it rose nearly to touch the backs of her knees. She unfastened the top of the urn, then grew still. Meredith watched the slow rise and fall of her slender shoulders as she breathed in, then out. 

Then, though her voice was muffled by distance, she said, “Goodbye, Mother,” and slowly upturned the urn into the water. The ashes tumbled out in a flowing, gray-ish curtain, and dust picked up by the breeze billowed out towards the open sea beyond the inlet’s protected waters.

It was over very quickly. Restless, Meredith let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in.

With a length of her dress gathered in one hand and the urn in the other, Hawke waded back out of the water and was immediately surrounded by her (somewhat infamous) circle of associates--including the two other apostates, whose brash disregard for the presence of a Templar at least did not include a public display of their magical abilities. No, Meredith did not join them; her words were best saved until after Hawke had a moment to share this catharsis with her companions. From her vantage point, Meredith noted the glimmer of tears in the Champion’s eyes and the slight flush of red to her face, evidence of either the great effort it took for her to hold in her emotions, or the cold wind stinging her cheeks. Yet she seemed to have no shortage of warm, radiant smiles for each friend who came up to her to take her hand, or pull her into an embrace. Then the crowd around her parted to let the Guard-Captain through.

Her armor polished to a gleam, Aveline Vallen came to stand before Hawke, and whatever words passed between them were too quiet for Meredith to hear. Nevertheless, she marked with curious displeasure how familiarly the Guard-Captain threaded an errant lock of Hawke’s long brown hair behind one of her ears. Meredith marked, too, how that simple gesture elicited a curl of warmth in Hawke’s smile, and how even the sight of it, so intimately gifted to someone else, made Meredith’s heart clench hard in her chest.

The two of them spoke to each other quietly. Then Hawke lifted her hands up to frame Aveline’s face, leaned close, and kissed her gently on the mouth.

 _Reckless_ , Meredith thought, and tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. _An entanglement with an apostate. The Guard-Captain should know better_. Yet she could not look away, could not breathe, until the two of them stood apart from each other again.

And in looking away from them, she became suddenly aware of the other eyes that were now on her.

All of the Champion’s companions, forced now to acknowledge her presence, loitered on the sandy bank in front of her wearing expressions varying from forced, polite smiles to bold scowls, and not a one of them seemed to know how best to step around her to take their leave. That Grey Warden apostate was the most brazen about his disdain, glaring at her down his narrow nose. But the pirate woman was almost as insulting, for as she strolled back towards the winding road leading back to Kirkwall, she had the audacity to _wink_ at Meredith. “Fancy meeting _you_ here,” she said coyly as she came to pass by Meredith’s shoulder, and walked two of her fingers across her pauldron. Meredith bristled.

“Isa _bela_!” hissed the petite elven apostate who scurried after her, giving Meredith a wide-eyed stare as she went.

Save for Brother Sebastian, who paused long enough to greet her with a formal-sounding, “It was good of you to be here, Knight-Commander,” the others dispersed around her without further incident. It felt belligerently irresponsible of her to allow the apostates to depart without so much as a cursory attempt at detaining them, but one glimpse of the Champion’s earnest, relieved eyes mollified her sense of duty for the moment.

With the Guard-Captain at her side, Hawke came up to her and smiled. “Hello, Knight-Commander,” she said, and Aveline mirrored her greeting, but with a more reserved, appraising look on her face.

Appraising. Scrutinizing, even. Meredith felt something darker than irritation unfurl in her gut under the Guard-Captain’s gaze. “Champion,” she returned calmly. Then, affecting neutrality, “Guard-Captain.”

“I’m glad you came,” Hawke went on, her warm words a balm for some injury Meredith didn’t realize she’d incurred. “I confess, I wasn’t sure that you would, all things considered.”

“I recall that I gave you my word that I would be in attendance. It would be unseemly to go back on that promise on such short notice.” Her eyes glanced past the fading smile on Hawke’s face to skim the expanse of the shoreline. “I had expected to see your uncle here as well.”

“Yes, it does appear he had a previous engagement more pressing than his own sister’s funeral.” Aveline didn’t mask her irritation with Gamlen Amell in either her expression or her tone, pressing her lips into a thin line. Hawke rested her hand placatingly on Aveline’s forearm.

“He’s never going to change,” she said quietly. “There’s no point in getting angry at him. Maker knows I’ve tried that approach already, without success.”

“Like getting angry at a badly trained hound, I suppose.” Aveline shook her head in resigned disapproval. “You’re probably right.”

There was no bashful shyness in how Hawke leaned into Aveline’s side. She fit there neatly, the Guard-Captain’s arm moving to accommodate her as though the action was old hat. It probably was. It took Meredith another moment to realize that she’d let the silence drag on for a fraction too long. She cleared her throat. “Please convey my condolences to your uncle,” she said, “when you see him.”

Hawke nodded. “I will, whenever that turns out to be. Will you return to Kirkwall now? You’re welcome to make the journey back with us if you’d like. It’s a long distance to travel alone.”

And spend the entire journey bearing witness to irrefutable proof of an illicit romantic relationship between Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain and a known apostate? Meredith thought of the hours required to endure the barrage of stolen kisses and linked hands; already she felt weary, and ill from something that was not so easy to parse as disgust. She had long known her own mind well enough to know that she found the company of beautiful women more desirable than the company of men, and she was hardly the only woman within the Order to have similar proclivities. That was not the source of her deep revulsion--nor was revulsion the most appropriate word to describe the distasteful, but covetous, feeling that roiled inside her.

As courteously as she could manage, she shook her head. “I thank you for the offer, but no,” she replied. “I believe I’ll take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy a bit of fresh air and solitude before I return to the Gallows.”

They said their farewells and were polite about it. Hawke thanked her, yet again, and Aveline shook her hand, respectful but removed. Then they left together, and though Meredith did her best to do exactly as she said she wanted to do, the sea air and welcomingly empty coastline could not sufficiently hold her attention. Looking across the water towards the sea beyond the cliffs, she still strained against her better judgment to hear the soft, unintelligible notes of Hawke’s voice as the breeze carried it back towards her. She caught snippets of her conversation with Aveline at first, a word of concern here, one of comfort there. Then they were too far away, and Meredith stood alone on the shore with only the churning current of her thoughts for companionship.

She tolerated it until she was sure that the Champion and her cohort had a good headstart. Then, unable to keep herself from clenching and flexing her fingers, she turned her back on the ocean and stepped out onto the road to Kirkwall.

It was late in the afternoon when she finally reached the outskirts of the city, its familiar, brutalist skyline scored a murky greyish brown from plumes of industrial smoke released by the Lowtown foundries. Knight-Captain Cullen was waiting for her when the small boat ferrying her from the mainland to the Gallows tied up at the dock. He greeted her with a respectful nod. “Welcome back, Knight-Commander,” he said. Then, hesitating only a moment, he added, “Was the ceremony--was it what you expected it to be?”

Her mind’s eye treated her to one last vision of the Champion in the Guard-Captain’s arms; her eyes closed, tendrils of brown hair loose around the fine bones of her cheeks, Aveline’s gentle, intimate grip on the flare of her waist. No, it was not what she expected. Meredith allowed herself a moment of unsteadiness on her feet, just enough to push that thought to the periphery, then hoisted herself out of the boat and strode up the dock to meet the Knight-Captain. “It was respectful enough, despite the unorthodox delivery of the homily.” A Chantry brother performing the work of a priest; perhaps Her Grace would overlook it, this time. Meredith looked at the missive in his grasp and held out her hand. “Your report?”

Cullen handed it to her without comment, and she gave it a quick, cursory examination. To her co-mingled annoyance and satisfaction, she discovered that the daily activities of the Gallows had continued on as normal under the Knight-Captain’s supervision, with the mages safely sequestered away within their studies and libraries, and the recruits’ training regimens dutifully overseen by their superiors. She should not be so surprised; the majority of the commendations in his file she had penned herself.

She looked up at him to find him waiting for her feedback with something approaching a hunted expression on his face. Nodding once, she handed the report back to him. “Very good, Knight-Captain,” she informed him. “If this is all you have for me, you’re dismissed.”

Deferentially, Cullen dipped his head. “I’ll return to my duties,” he replied, began to turn away, then stopped himself. “Ah.”

In his hesitation, he had completely barred her way off the docks. Meredith exhaled shortly and made a passing attempt at stifling her irritation. “What is it?”

“It’s First Enchanter Orsino, I’m afraid,” Cullen said, grimacing, and looked backward towards the Gallows as though expecting to spot the slight mage scowling down at him from some high window. “He wanted me to inform him the moment you returned from the Wounded Coast. I believe he has something urgent to discuss with you.”

The sheer audacity of that man to believe he had any authority over a Templar! Meredith closed her eyes and struggled to keep the fraying ends of her composure from unraveling completely. “What does he want?” she demanded.

“I’m afraid he was tightlipped regarding the specifics, Knight-Commander. Nevertheless, it felt imprudent to report to him regarding your comings and goings from the Gallows.”

“Imprudent is an understatement.” Meredith scowled, wrestling her outrage under control. “I’ll see to this.”

It was well after the evening meal when Meredith was able to meet with Orsino in his office and listen to his latest litany of unfounded grievances, in addition to the usual business that forced them to, on occasion, cooperate with each other. On most nights it would have been difficult for her to rein in her temper at each indulgence the First Enchanter demanded of her. Tonight, though, she barely heard him; her thoughts drifted back to Hawke, time and again, as though following a well worn path to a familiar, secret wood.

Kirkwall’s Champion had an undeniable gentleness to her, and an expressive sincerity in her eyes and smile that could soothe any ill temper; recalling how those eyes had looked at Aveline brought an involuntary flush of warmth and color to Meredith’s face. But it wasn’t gentleness that had sustained her through years spent on the run from the Order, or in a life only newly lifted out of the harsh rigors of poverty. It took courage, and strength of character and conviction, to face the world as it was and wisely choose between action and inaction. The Champion of Kirkwall had acted bravely to save the city from the Qunari; but to preserve the last, tattered remains of her family, the woman Brona Hawke had chosen to stay her hand and bide her time.

Similarly, Aveline Vallen seemed to have more in common with the shield she carried, than with her sword. Meredith knew enough about her history to acknowledge, grudgingly, that whatever accolades the Ferelden soldier had acquired during her tenure as Guard-Captain, she had earned on her own merit. She’d read the reports; Aveline had put herself at incredible personal risk to expose the corruption of her predecessor, and had been duly rewarded for her dedication to her new office. But what good was the strength of her shield if she raised it to protect a woman whose magic could pose as great a threat to Kirkwall as the Arishok? How was her blindness to Hawke’s inherent vice anything less than corruption of the highest order?

What would she do, Meredith wondered with growing dread, if the unthinkable were to occur, and Hawke became an abomination? Necessity dictated that someone be called upon to strike the killing blow.

“Knight-Commander?”

Orsino’s voice pierced her thoughts with grating efficiency. Meredith fixed her eyes on his face and found the First Enchanter watching her with waning patience, his hands spread in expectation. They were seated at his desk in his office, and for the life of her, Meredith could not recall even a word of what they’d been discussing.

She uncrossed her legs and stood up. “Let’s resume this conversation in the morning, Orsino. Better yet, leave a draft of your recommendations with Elsa, and I’ll review them after my session with the Seneschal tomorrow.”

Orsino didn’t stand up, which Meredith noted with uncharacteristic ambivalence; his disrespect was simply another excuse for her to leave his office. He gathered up a few sheaves of paper and stacked them together neatly. “You place undue stress on this apprentice by needlessly delaying discussion of her Harrowing. Perhaps you should consider postponing your business at the Keep instead, and make time for your obligations here.”

That riled her temper. “What qualifies you to make such a recommendation?” she demanded. “Have you been briefed on the specifics of Kirkwall’s dire circumstances? What occurs in the city affects us in the Gallows.”

“Kirkwall’s concerns should not become the concerns of the Order,” Orsino replied. Meredith could almost hear, ‘ _Not again_ ,’ in his tone, but he was sensible enough not to speak the words aloud.

She let the silence stretch tellingly between them for a moment, and felt an ugly satisfaction when she glimpsed Orsino’s throat bob nervously. She leaned over his desk. “Without a Viscount, matters of state have become my responsibility. This meeting cannot be postponed.”

“I see.” Taking his time, Orsino stood, finally, and crossed the room to his office door, which he unlocked and then held open. The glare he turned on Meredith meant nothing to her; let him stew in his impotent vitriol.

As she left his office, she paused on the threshold to look at the First Enchanter one more time. To his credit, he didn’t drop his gaze. “Have a care, Orsino,” she said quietly. Then she left, and heard the snick of the door as he closed it behind her.

She let herself inside her office and closed the door soundly behind her. Out her window, she caught a glimpse of two young women--an apprentice and a Tranquil mage--at work bringing in the last of the enchanted objects and elixirs from the market stands outside the Gallows gates. In the far corner, Elsa had banked the fire in the fireplace at some point during the evening, and it took little effort at all to coax the glowing embers back into a warm, crackling blaze. As she put away her belongings and settled in for the night, the details of her meeting with Orsino returned to her slowly. The Harrowing for a vulnerable Circle apprentice, she recalled.

She paused in the middle of unbuckling the clasps affixing her breastplate in place.

_The Harrowing._

  
  


The idea kept her restless throughout the night; when she managed to sleep, it was a shallow sleep filled with fitful dreams, whose contents she refused to acknowledge. Yet the whole of her body was hot and flush when she rose a full hour ahead of schedule the next morning, and only a cold bath could chase the persistent desire away from her thoughts.

Dawn was just a dull, blue-white glow on the eastern horizon as she dressed. Afterwards, she lit a candle to give herself some light to write by, and bent to the task of drafting another letter. The message was short but, she hoped, just the right side of being curt.

When Elsa arrived to deliver the morning’s post to her, Meredith handed her the letter. “See that this gets to the Champion of Kirkwall, today,” she instructed, endeavoring not to let her racing pulse let her hand shake.

Elsa took the letter and dipped her head in unquestioning obedience. “Of course, Knight-Commander.” She asked no prying questions and her eyes, when they met Meredith’s again, were clear of curiosity or suspicion. At Meredith’s dismissal, she left and had the good sense to shut the door behind her.

Alone, Meredith closed her eyes and rested her face against her palms, and listened to the morning sounds that filtered in through her open window; the wash of the waves against the pier, the muted conversation of the recruits at their training exercises--even chatter amongst the Harrowed mages as they passed her office door in the corridor en route to their daily studies. It was useless not to name the feeling that built itself up in her heart:  hope. Hope that perhaps, one day, Hawke might be there amongst them where she belonged--a Circle mage, a threat contained. An unfortunate innocent, now protected from her own cursed nature.

These developments would take time, of course, and she would need to be careful. She could not go to Hawke--Hawke would have to come to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me every step of the way. It's not perfect, but it is as perfect as it is going to get.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke struggles to understand a terrifying dream, then makes a choice.

The dearth of trees in Kirkwall meant that to glimpse a roosting owl was a rarity. Yet there one was, perched on a shady branch that crossed just in front of the open bedroom window of the Hawke estate. Beneath a layer of warm blankets and with her thoughts drifting along the outer edges of sleep, Hawke drowsily watched the white bird as it preened a long flight feather with the mean hook of its beak. Its presence had frightened off the mourning doves who normally nested overnight in those boughs. Bathed by moonlight, it looked like a ghost.

Hawke curled her fingers into the soft fabric of the pillowcase under her cheek. To the owl, she said in a voice still low and heavy from indolence, “You’ve made yourself right at home here, haven’t you?”

Hearing her voice, the owl paused in its preening to turn its round face backward. Two enormous golden eyes ringed by fine, downy white feathers, regarded her with unexpected intelligence. A reedy voice passed its beak, which formed words clumsily but clearly. “No more than you have.”

Hawke’s shoulders seized up reflexively, as if in response to a hand suddenly grabbing her by the neck. She pushed herself up onto one elbow and scrutinized the owl with new eyes. Under her stare, the great bird turned its attention away from her to regard one of its immense wings admiringly.

 _The Fade._ It should have been so obvious; Malcolm had trained her eye since childhood to beware the signs that she was fadewalking, and not simply dreaming or on the cusp of sleep. Hawke took in her surroundings and noted for the first time a subtle wrongness that had seemed unremarkably normal moments ago:  the distant wuthering of the wind outside while the tree branches themselves remained immobile; the portraits on the walls whose vacant faces now looked out at her from their canvases, their mouths and eyes contorting with animated contempt; the pale green glow that emanated from below the floorboards, casting a ghostly pall across the curtains.

And the talking bird, of course.

She turned her attention back on it warily. “You’re a spirit.” _Or demon._

“You aren’t as stupid as you look--more’s the pity. That would’ve made this easier.” The demon cocked its head to one side as it watched her. It clicked its beak, then remarked, “Although, maybe you are. How else could you believe this masquerade of domesticity would fool anyone?”

Caught between confusion and fear, she sat up further and gathered the blankets up against her chest. “What?”

The owl flexed its enormous wings as though it were offering a wide, open-armed embrace to the world around them. “You and the Guard-Captain, playing house together in this fancy Hightown estate. All the lavish dinner parties thrown in your honor, the gifts showered upon you by Kirkwall peerage. The _enthusiasm_ with which you hurl your fortune at any charitable cause to catch your eye.” The owl made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “I’ve spied upon the dreams of old dowagers with four times’ your means. How they would clutch at their pearls over your disregard for your wealth! What a caricature of _noblesse oblige_ you’ve become--simply to allay the fears of all who look at you.”

Defensive, Hawke shot back without thinking, “The people of Kirkwall are _not_ afraid of me.”

The owl gave her a peculiar look. “You really believe that,” it said silkily, “don’t you?”

‘Yes,’ she wanted to say with defiance, but stopped short of actually saying the word. She tightened her grip on the blanket; doubt crept over her like a chill from damp clothes buffeted by a bitter wind. This was so reckless. She shouldn’t have entertained the thought--shouldn’t have entertained any dialogue with a spirit--but it was difficult to keep its fingers from digging in and pulling at her, their tight grip making bruises out of old scars that she’d long thought healed. Was she wrong?

“I do,” she insisted, and winced at how small her voice sounded. She pressed on anyway. “For the first time in my life, I don’t have to live in fear, or hide who I am--not from anyone.”

Slow and serpentine, the spirit swayed its head from left to right, as though trying to find the best angle to look at her from with its large, passionless eyes. At last it fixed on and held her stare. “And this is who Brona Hawke is? A little lost mage girl, telling lies to the dark?”

Distantly, as though the sound had to travel a great distance under water to reach her, Hawke heard the bedroom door creak open, and the muted fall of footsteps on lush carpet crossing the floor. Hawke groped with her awareness of herself towards the warmth of the waking world already burning away the sleep fog at the edges of her vision, but the owl’s sudden, too-wide grin dogged her line of sight, a blind spot after looking into the sun for too long.

Its words were a whisper breathed right into her ear by lips she couldn’t see. “Be careful you don’t lie to the light, too.”

Then a warm hand on her shoulder pulled her backwards out of its reach, and when her eyes snapped open she lay on her back in the bedroom of her estate. The sheets lay in tangles around her legs; above her, Aveline met her eyes with concern, her copper hair backlit by the white light of a clear morning.

Reflexively, she shot a harried look at the window and saw only a pair of mourning doves, huddled together and cooing as they roused to wakefulness. She let out a sharp lungful of air, unaware until that moment that she’d been holding her breath. “Maker,” she swore and brought up an unsteady hand to push a strand of sweat-slick hair off of her forehead.

“Well that answers my next question,” Aveline said, her brow set into a grave line, and kneaded her fingers against Hawke’s taut shoulder muscles. She was already dressed in the gambeson that she wore beneath her City Guard’s plate armor, her hair a bit damp and the skin of her face still sporting a few droplets of water from the bath. She made no attempt to mask the worry in her eyes. “I guess you didn’t sleep well.”

“A bad dream,” Hawke murmured, and felt the inadequacy of those words settle around her shoulders with smothering heaviness. She forced herself to sit up and carded her fingers through her hair a few times to get as much of it out of her face as she could, “It was terribly vivid. I haven’t had a dream like that since…”

Aveline reached out to brush the length of her long brown hair away from her back, her fingertips tracing familiarly across Hawke’s skin. The warmth of her light, ghosting touch made Hawke shiver, but it couldn’t dispel her unease.

“The Deep Roads,” Aveline supplied into the intervening silence.

Memories of dark caverns, preternaturally illuminated dwarven ruins, and the sickly sweet stink of blight rot in her brother’s sweat came back to her unbidden. Hawke took a breath, then let it out slowly. “Some days,” she admitted softly, “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

She could feel the weight of Aveline’s eyes on her, watching her wordlessly. Hawke kept speaking; it never helped to keep the insidious thoughts to herself, and they both knew it. She pressed a hand to her face and squeezed her eyes shut. “I still can’t believe I left him behind.”

“Hawke…” There were no words of comfort that Aveline could give that she hadn’t already offered before. Carver’s death--and Leandra’s-- were common subjects often brought up during Hawke’s dark nights of the soul; she suspected that Aveline had come to accept, after years of attempting to fix it, that this was not an issue that would ever find a neat resolution, or a time at which it could be put aside and remembered with only a twinge of melancholy. Nevertheless there was compassion in her silence, and in the strong arm she rested around Hawke’s shoulders, the tender kiss she placed against her temple. Sighing out the last of the tension that had held her neck and back so rigid and still since waking, Hawke slid her arms around Aveline’s waist and fitted herself snugly into the space created by the guard-captain’s warm side and the blankets.

Aveline curled her fingers into her hair and rested her cheek against the side of Hawke’s head. “I love you,” she reminded her quietly, and it was the steady timbre of her voice, as much as it was the words themselves, that soothed the lingering frayed edges of Hawke’s persistent restlessness. After a moment, she asked, “ _Did_ you dream about the Deep Roads again?”

"No,” Hawke started, but as she began to say more, her mind gifted her with a frighteningly vivid image of large, impenetrably cold golden eyes set above a distorted grin. Her breath caught in her throat.

Had it been only a dream? Caught up in the thick of it, it had possessed all of the hallmarks of fadewalking, but as the fingers of sleep departed, her certainty dissipated with it. If it had only been a dream, then there was no harm in sharing the details of it with Aveline--she’d understand. Who wouldn’t have to endure occasional nightmares after watching their entire family torn apart by blight and blood magic? That hardly meant she’d been targeted by a Fade spirit--and she’d awoken now no worse for wear. She was fine, she told herself. A little shaken, perhaps, but fine.

She twisted a loose thread from the sheets around her fingers, like the thought she twisted around in her mind, but stopped herself before it started to fray. _And yet_.

And yet, she thought, reluctantly letting herself follow that train of thought towards its grim conclusion. If she’d truly been conscious in the Fade--if she’d broken Malcolm Hawke’s first rule, about refusing any and all dialogue with a demon--then she had been on the cusp of possession, and a hair’s breadth away from becoming an abomination. She’d put herself, and her household, and the whole city of Kirkwall, in incredible danger.

Could she tell Aveline that?

Aveline’s voice brought her out of her ruminations. “Was it that bad?”

Hawke looked up into her eyes again and realized she’d been silent for too long. “No,” she replied without thinking, but once she’d spoken it was too late to take it back. Uncomfortably, she looked away and soldiered on. “No, it was nothing. I… can’t remember much of it anyway, now that I’m waking up.” She looked up to Aveline again and tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but her heart wasn’t in it, and she let it fade.

Aveline held her gaze for a moment longer. Hawke couldn’t read her; it was hard to tell what thoughts she kept behind her bright green eyes, or what she meant to convey by the firm line of her lips. But her fingers kept gently stroking through Hawke’s hair, and the silence between them remained a sanctuary of warmth and safety. But Hawke felt a lurch in her gut as she realized that she’d just lied. Lied, to Aveline.

“I’m all right, I promise,” she offered to the intervening silence, as though saying the words aloud could make them true.

Tenderly, Aveline smoothed more hair back from Hawke’s cheek and said in a quiet voice that accepted all the things left unspoken, “All right,” and then bent to kiss her gently on the mouth. She tasted of clean skin, the scent of soap still lingering against her cheekbones. With a need that surprised her, Hawke leaned into the kiss and brought her hand up to cradle the back of Aveline’s head in her palm, felt Aveline’s breath catch in a way that sparked desire low in her stomach. The temptation to draw her lover back into the safety and simplicity of the bedsheets was overwhelming in that moment, but with a reluctant sound Aveline drew back, her smile rueful. “I’m already at risk of being late for my patrol.”

Hawke smothered her disappointment, as well as her lingering guilt, and reached for her dressing gown. There would be another time to dissect her feelings, and perhaps come clean about the contents of her dream, but it wouldn’t be now. “You chose an early shift this morning,” she remarked as she pulled on the fine burgundy fabric. “Who will chastise you for running a little behind schedule? You’re your own boss, aren’t you?”

Wryly, Aveline replied, “Not according to Seneschal Bran.”

Together they left the master suite and went downstairs to where Bodhan had set out breakfast for them beside the fire. It was simple fare; warm slices of bread, a wheel of soft cheese, and a pot of still steaming, fragrant jasmine tea--a favorite of Hawke’s since Varric had first acquired a selection of it from Antiva some months ago. Taking hold of the pot, Hawke poured herself a cup and reflected privately that her mother had loved it, too.

Aveline didn’t slip into one of the available seats, but instead plucked up a few rolls and tucked them into the leather travel bag slung over her shoulder. “I should be back a bit after noon, unless the Seneschal calls for a private meeting with me once my patrol is over.”

Hawke took a sip from the teacup, then frowned. “Is he likely to?”

“It’s hard to say, for now,” Aveline said and secured the clasp on her shoulder bag. “If the Knight-Commander has any concerns she’d like to raise with me, she tends to use him as a conduit.” She fiddled with the clasp for a moment, then added, “It was good of her to come to the memorial service on the Wounded Coast, though, I will grant her that.”

Thinking of Knight-Commander Meredith’s severe countenance so close on the heels of her nightmare made Hawke’s heart lurch unpleasantly; she took a sip of the aromatic tea to soothe her suddenly parched throat. She placed the cup still steaming on the table, then stepped towards Aveline to straighten the collar of the undertunic that peeked out of her gambeson. The sturdy fabric was coarse as hopsack under her fingertips. “I’m still shocked we survived that without bloodshed,” she remarked, forcing some levity into her voice, “or anyone ending up in the Gallows.”

“She gave you her word,” Aveline pointed out somewhat ambivalently. “Though I must admit,” she added and caught Hawke’s eye, “I did have my reservations about the whole affair.”

It had been a foolish risk to take; Hawke had known that even as she’d penned the letter and hurried the courier off with it. She chewed the corner of her lip doubtfully, then spoke. “I don’t know why I sent the invitation to her at all. I knew having her there wouldn’t change anyone’s sympathies, least of all hers.”

Aveline made a noise of reluctant agreement, but before she could speak up, Hawke pressed on with, “But _you_ read the letter she sent. It seemed so genuine, like it came from a place of real understanding. And pain. After reading it, inviting her just seemed…” Charitable? Justified? Falling silent, she studied the cup on the table instead and traced the delicate ornamentation painted around its rim with her eyes.

Aveline took hold of her hands and suggested thoughtfully, “Like the right thing to do?”

 _I grieve with you,_ the Knight-Commander had written, _as only one who has also lost a loved one to blood magic can. From the bottom of my heart, Champion--I am most sorry for your loss._

Meredith Stannard’s letter had been a grand gesture packaged small:  her condolences were a sword temporarily sheathed; a hand tentatively offered; the beginnings of a dialogue that Hawke, in her present position, felt both ill-equipped and unwilling to ignore. Yes, she supposed, it had been right to allow the Knight-Commander close, just this once. Like reaching a bare hand close to a flame to salvage something precious before it could be burned away; risky, but worth the danger. Hawke bit her lower lip in thought. “Do you think I made a mistake?”

Aveline shook her head. “No, I don’t. I don’t know that I would have made the same choice, were I in your position, but that doesn’t make me right or you wrong.” Briskly, she brought Hawke’s hands up to her lips and kissed her knuckles, looking pained. “I wish I could stay longer but--”

“Go, go.” Hawke waved her off with a quick smile, making an effort to ensure it reached her eyes. “You don’t need to start off your day with a lecture from Bran.”

The corners of Aveline’s eyes crinkled warmly when she smiled. “Now there’s a terrifying thought.”

Then she was gone. Hawke stood in the doorway watching the retreating image of Aveline’s shield as the streets of Hightown welcomed her in, then spirited her away towards the keep. For a few precious seconds, Hawke let herself bask in the warm morning sunlight as it fell against her face, the crisp fragrance of encroaching autumn on the air, and the taste of Aveline’s mouth still lingering on her lips and tongue. Then a flutter of wings from the eaves overhead had her ducking back into the shelter of the foyer, eyes wide and hunted, and she shut the door with more force than necessary.

Through the window, she saw a pair of grey-mottled doves wing their way to the ground outside the estate, where they proceeded to scratch and peck at the ground. Doves--not an owl. Feeling a stab of chagrin, Hawke leaned into the window and let her forehead rest against the cool glass. What a silly response that had been; those birds weren’t much of a threat to anything that wasn’t birdseed or a few crumbs. Still, her heart pounded against her sternum as though her own sudden, reflexive terror had taken spurs to it. She sucked in a breath and squeezed her eyes shut, resting a trembling hand against her collarbone.

“Is everything all right, my lady?”

Bodhan lingered just beyond the reach of her peripheral vision. Hawke turned her head enough to glimpse the lines of worry on his aging face, his deeply furrowed brow. “I’m fine, Bodhan,” she said, more harshly than she’d intended to, and squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to watch him wince at her tone. She sighed and gentled herself. “I’m sorry,” she added softly. “I slept so poorly, and I…” Even to her own ears, her excuses stripped her apology of all its sincerity. She met his eyes again, contrite. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Oh, well--that’s all right, my lady.” Flustered, Bodhan looked down at the envelope he held, turning it over and over again in his grasp. He stepped forward and held it out to her. “This came for you just last night, by the way,” he explained as she took it. “I would’ve given it to you then, but you and Guard-Captain Aveline had already gone to bed. And, given all the walking you’d done going to and from the Wounded Coast, I thought, well, best to let them rest.”

“That’s kind of you, Bodhan.” Hawke smiled at him, then examined the envelope. It was plain and without any identifying features on it; she could not even discern the sender by the wax seal. She knit her brows and fiddled with the edges of it as she left the foyer and walked towards the study. “You said this arrived last night?”

“Yes, my lady, via courier.”

Hawke found a letter opener hiding in and amongst the other scattered pieces of correspondence littering her desk, making a mental note to sort the old from the new at a later date when she felt she could be bothered with it. Fitting the blade in place, she pried the wax loose, withdrew the neatly folded letter from inside, and unfolded it.

 _Esteemed Champion of Kirkwall_ , it began.

Struggling to moderate her breathing, she took the letter back to the breakfast table, tried to make herself as comfortable as possible in one of the chairs despite her racing pulse, and read what the Knight-Commander had written.

_Esteemed Champion of Kirkwall,_

_Let me begin first by thanking you for the great honor you afforded me with your invitation to attend your mother’s memorial ceremony on the Wounded Coast today. It is my sincere hope that the Maker grants you the peace that you seek, though I know well how the pain of loss endures despite the passage of time._

_It is in this spirit of shared devotion to Andraste and the Maker’s Will that I reach out to you now, and cordially invite you to meet with me here at the Gallows to discuss your current relationship with both the Circle, and the Order. I recognize that you have good reason to reject my invitation given my role and your status. However, it is my hope that, by committing my assurance to paper that no one will bar you from leaving the Gallows at the conclusion of your visit, you will meet with me at your earliest convenience._

_Kind regards,_

_Meredith Stannard_

 

“My lady? Are you quite well?”

Hawke looked up at Bodhan from the letter in her grasp; at her expression, his bristly eyebrows drew together into a deep, worried furrow that reminded her painfully of her father. She turned her face from him and towards the crackling warmth of the hearthfire, leaning against the little breakfast table and worrying her knuckles against her chin. Was she well? It seemed impossible to pretend that she was.

_Be careful you don’t lie to the light, too._

She started upright so quickly that she knocked her knee against the table, but grimaced through it and started towards the stairs. “I’m fine,” she assured him, and offered up a silent prayer of gratitude when he didn’t press her for more details and let her go. In the bedroom that she shared with Aveline, she found the clothes she’d laid out for herself the day before and hastily changed into them, then pulled her long brown hair into a thick braid. Her father’s old gray coat still rested draped across the back of the chair she’d tossed it onto last night, having never made it back into the wardrobe where it belonged. She pulled it on, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the ornate mirror affixed to the wall, and forced herself into a moment of stillness; what was she doing?

If inviting the Knight-Commander to attend her mother’s memorial ceremony on the Wounded Coast had been a risky proposition, then the one she was about to embark upon ventured dangerously close towards the territory of true madness. Whatever good could come from answering this summons was negligible at best, and could result in her imprisonment--or execution for apostasy--at worst. It would be wiser to set this aside for now, to think on it. To wait.

Waiting, she imagined, would not suit the Knight-Commander one bit.

 

 

The docks were awake, and had been for hours by the time Hawke reached the grimy jetty where the ferryman tethered his boat. He sat in the boat’s stern and was fiddling with a length of old rope; half obscured by thick grey smog, the Gallows towered beyond him across the channel’s oily waters.

Stepping lightly, she ventured out onto the jetty, which bobbed under her feet as it sank some to accommodate her weight. The ferryman turned to squint at her, his face wind burnt and leathery from years spent at the helm and oar. When he recognized her his eyes widened, awestruck and a little afraid. “Champion..!”

It was the fear that cut her, and she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. Dropping her eyes, she held the fare out to him. He hesitated only a moment, then reached out to accept the coins she placed in his hand. He counted them quickly, then slipped them into one of his coat pockets. “To the Gallows?”

Hawke let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Looks like it.”

The ferryman shared a grim smile with her and reached for the mooring. “Let’s be off then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My never-ending thanks to varethinsilico for her beta skills, and the positive thoughts/encouragement given to me by the other ladies in our excellent writing group. <3


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